Lighthouse
by Mr. Shishio
Summary: AU. Eventual LeonCloud. We're all ships at sea, caught in our own private storms.
1. The Blues

You guys sure are lucky. Not only am I actually _writing_ something, but that something has _multiple chapters!_

My utmost thanks go to MeowMeowKy and Delightful Sin, for essentially forcing me to write this, and to Ky again for her lovely beta-ing.

This fanfic has a little bit of an odd set-up, because all though it's Kingdom Hearts-based, I'm obsessed with FFVIII right now, so there's a preponderance of FFVIII characters who aren't necessarily in any Kingdom Hearts game. If you haven't played VIII, I hope I've established them well enough that you can figure things out. If I haven't, Wikipedia is your friend!

Also, each chapter is titled after the song that helped me write it and begins with a line from that song. Think of it as that chapter's background music. I don't own any of it. (Well, except for the mp3s.)

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Kingdom Hearts or any Final Fantasy game. "The Blues" is by Switchfoot.

* * *

**Lighthouse**

Chapter 1:

**The Blues**

* * *

_It'll be a day like this one when the world caves in…_

* * *

It was late, a little past midnight. A solitary figure, one Squall Leonhart, was making his lonely way home, his worn messenger bag bumping against his leg with every stride. A dusting of snow was falling, and the previous night's accumulation crunched under his boots. Squall paused under a street light, hefting his bag higher on his shoulder. He brought gloved hands to his lips, blowing to warm the frozen digits. A look up, and his eyes reflected the glow of neon lights from the center of the city.

Squall tore his gaze away, scoffing. He continued walking. The lights of Radiant Garden – the Center of the World, the City Where Dreams Become Reality – could hypnotize anyone.

But he knew better.

Even in Radiant Garden, days were still long and Februarys were still cold.

Today had been a Friday like any other. He'd worked a few pointless jobs, made enough to pay last month's rent – his roommate, Irvine, never paid his share – and after waiting tables during the evening rush at the Lunatic Pandora, he thought to himself, calculating salaries and hours and utility bills, that he just might have earned enough tips to buy a few more tubes of paint. Then maybe he could do what he'd really come here for.

At the same time, he knew that wouldn't be how it happened. Irvine would mooch off him for beer money again, then someone would throw a party, and then he'd have to face Rinoa again. He never knew what to say to her.

Barring all of that, he knew he'd just go home to his and Irvine's tiny apartment and stare at a canvas until he fell asleep, and still nothing would come of it.

After college, he'd stayed in Radiant Garden, eyes bright and naïve, entranced by the stories and the dreams and the lights. He wanted to become an artist, taking in every detail of the world around him, and channeling passion through his brushstrokes, to show everyone around him how everything was.

And he'd hear them. Someday, they'd all see the world, hanging there in gallery frames, draped across walls, and he'd hear them say it.

"Wow. Squall Leonhart? I haven't heard of him, but this is amazing." And he'd see it in their eyes: moving emotion, recognition of the truth.

But reality was crueler. Success didn't come instantly. He had known it wouldn't, but he hadn't expected the thankless hours of thankless jobs, and the thankless monotony of it all. All to support his real work. His passion. His life.

Rinoa had always helped him before, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, or wrapping her arms around him in a hug when she knew he'd felt his lowest but would never admit it. But after that morning, he knew he was back to being on his own. They'd had their fights before, but somehow he knew this had been the last time. After eleven months, it was all over.

Squall sighed, the warm breath turning to mist in the cold air. Eleven months of wasted effort. He dug his hands into his pockets in an effort to warm them, and his fingers brushed against the ring he'd given Rinoa that Christmas. The ring she'd left him with after their fight that morning.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Squall removed his hands from his pockets, instead adjusting the sleeves of his coat. He never cried. He wouldn't start now.

Squall increased his pace to a brisk walk, bracing himself against the bitter wind. There was a subway terminal just ahead. Even he knew that walking alone in the dark and the cold at night to the neighborhood where he was heading was near suicide. Normally, Squall would walk anyway – what did he have to lose? – but with a negative wind chill and a prediction of freezing rain towards midnight, even he questioned his sanity.

It was warmer when he descended underground, out of the wind, and he spent a few precious dollars on a ticket to Hollow Bastion. He knew the Hollow Bastion station was not far from the apartment complex he lived in.

The subway glowed eerily in the darkness of the tunnel as it pulled into the station, and he slipped onboard as the doors opened.

As he slumped into a grimy plastic seat, Squall was surprised to discover that the train had another occupant. Across from him slouched another young man. It was hard to tell because of his bulky coat and the scarf wrapped around his nose and mouth, but Squall guessed the man's age to be close to his own. The man wore a black overcoat and a hat pulled over his ears, with small wisps of blonde bangs peeking out from under it.

But it was the man's eyes that caught Squall's attention. They were a shocking bright blue, but turned towards the ground, drooping lids hanging over them. The man's gaze was focused on a spot on the floor, not far from Squall's foot, but Squall knew he wasn't seeing anything. It was the dull, clouded look in those eyes that Squall recognized. He saw it on himself in his reflection on the subway window.

They were the same, he and this man sitting across from him on the subway. They were both world-weary, despairing, and alone, disillusioned by Radiant Garden's lights. Their eyes betrayed it.

But the subway paid them no heed as it lurched into the Hollow Bastion station. A shiver ran down Squall's spine and he jumped to his feet as the doors opened, taking the stairs two at a time to the outside world.

Squall surfaced at the Hollow Bastion terminal, less than a block away from his apartment complex. He barely glanced at the dingy concrete monstrosity looming over him before he opened the door and headed for the grimy staircase inside. Reaching an equally shabby door, Squall turned his key in the lock and pried the door open.

Home sweet home.

All things considered, Squall realized he ought to consider himself lucky. At least their building had heat. He peeled off his gloves and kicked his boots off in the entryway, shucking off his trademark fur-collared leather jacked. He slung it over the kitchenette's counter, setting his key beside it. To his left, Squall caught the flashes of the television from the dark of the minimal living room. The floor creaked irritably as Squall padded over to investigate.

"Hey Squall," Irvine drawled from his resting place on the threadbare couch, without even shifting his gaze from the TV screen. The half-asleep cowboy basked in the limelight of the cheap television, his Stetson drooping over one sleepy eye. Squall grimaced at the irony.

Fame and fortune had always been Irvine's dream. A Radiant Garden alumnus just like Squall (Bachelor of Arts in musical composition) born on a ranch in the heart of the Galbadian prairie, Irvine had come to RGU to make it big. Only a few years out of college and he had already moved from a failed singer-songwriter to an out-of-work actor and musician. Irvine was taking a break from job-hunting, but he could be seen fiddling on the street for anyone who would listen. Amazingly, he could usually make a buck or two that way.

"Work sucked, before you ask," Squall said, leaning over the back of the couch to see what his roommate was so entranced by. "What're you watching?"

"Some lame action flick," Irvine replied with a dismissive wave of his hand, "called _Olympus_-something-or-other. You know: 'Oh! Drama!' 'Bang! Bang you're dead!' It's been on over and over all day. Some kind of network premier."

Squall shrugged. "As long as you're paying the cable bill."

Following the action on screen, Squall saw a middle-aged man with five-o-clock shadow and eyes shielded by sunglasses – despite his dim surroundings – rattling off the usually dramatic monologue ("This is my story: You're not in it!") as he pointed his gun at the younger male protagonist crouching before him. Said protagonist sported immaculately-spiked blonde hair, despite the trail of blood congealing at the corner of his mouth and an open wound under his eye. The camera panned to the blonde, zooming in as he swiped the blood from his lip and fixed his tormentor with a defiant glare.

Squall froze.

Those eyes. Brilliant blue, glowing with the adrenaline rush, but haunted by a ghost of hopelessness and desperation.

Impossible…

"Irvine! That guy!" Squall blurted before he could stop himself. His roommate whirled around, breaking his eye contact with the TV for the first time in what Squall knew must have been hours.

"What?! What?!"

"Him!" Squall jabbed a finger in the direction of the blonde on TV (who had whipped out his own weapon and was now battling the older man, presumably to the death). "Who's he?"

Irvine blinked, disgruntled, adjusting his hat so it rested properly on his head. "Uh, Cloud Strife. This was one of his first big roles. It's almost the end, though. You missed the best part: his scene with _Tifa Lockheart_..."

Squall rolled his eyes and coughed, "Lecher."

"What's it to you?" Irvine demanded, tossing his long auburn ponytail over his shoulder. "And what's with your sudden interest in Cloud Strife?" he continued, quirking an eyebrow.

Squall shook his head. "…Nothing. Never mind."

But he stayed to see the rest of the movie anyway.

That night, Squall dreamt of Rinoa. He woke the next morning missing her already. Thinking of her smile and gentle touch, he felt a new pit of aloneness digging its way into his heart.

Rinoa was so sweet and caring, always throwing her whole heart and soul into everything she did. He loved that about her. She'd been the first to bring out his impulsive side, to make him forget for a moment about how the world saw him. But she never seemed to understand how he felt. And he had never been able to get outside of himself enough to tell her.

His dream had brought back one particularly memorable date. She'd suggested they go see a movie. It was a horrible chick flick, really. Squall had agreed to go. He'd hated the movie, but it was time spent with Rinoa that mattered to him, not what they were doing. If she was happy, he could be happy, too. Besides, it wasn't like he'd had any better plans.

Walking downtown after the movie—in the nice part of Radiant Garden—holding hands under the city lights, she'd stopped him.

"Squall… You didn't want to go to that movie," she'd stated.

"Of course I did," he'd told her. But there was no changing Rinoa's mind once she had something she felt she needed to say.

"Don't lie!" she'd shouted. "…Squall… What do _you_ want to do?"

Like a fool, he'd brought her hand – still held in his own – up to his lips. "This… This is fine with me," and tried to smile. He didn't understand what she was upset about. She'd pulled her hand away.

"No, Squall. It's not. Why don't we ever do what _you_ want to do?"

He'd opened his mouth to reply – he didn't know what with – but Rinoa had cut him off.

"This is important to me, Squall. _You're_ important to me. I wish you'd be a little more open with me."

"Rinoa... I said I was fine."

For some reason he couldn't comprehend, tears had welled up in her big brown eyes.

"I wish you wouldn't say that…" she'd sobbed weakly and turned to walk away.

Like a fool, he hadn't tried to follow her.

…Squall realized he'd really never deserved a girl like Rinoa. The previous morning was fresh in his mind. Rinoa's words still echoed in his ears.

_"I thought we could make this _work_, Squall! But you're not _trying. _ I feel like I'm wasting my time. I love you Squall. I really do. But I _never_ know how you feel. And I don't know if I can take any more of this! _

_I used to believe you could do anything, Squall. You just had that look, like someone I could lean on who would always protect me. But you never let anyone get past those _walls_ you've built up around yourself! _

_You're being a coward, Squall. And I hope someday someone can knock you out of it. But she's not going to be me."_

She'd left him there, alone in his living room, the door slamming shut behind her.

Squall sat up in bed and popped his neck, effectively popping himself out of his trance. He didn't have to think about this right now. It was Saturday. He could paint today.

Squall got up, pulling on a pair of jeans over his boxer shorts and digging a shirt out of his closet. He frowned, nose twitching in the air. That smelled like… smoke…

Squall dropped the shirt in alarm, dashing out into the main room of the apartment.

He stared in shock at the kitchenette, which seemed to be rapidly filling up with smoke.

"IRVINE!" he shouted. "What are you DOING?!"

Said cowboy roommate coughed loudly, wafting away the smoke as he emerged from the kitchenette, holding a smoking skillet that looked like it might have contained bacon (in a past life).

"Oh. Good morning, Squall!" Irvine replied between coughs. "Look! I made you breakfast!" he exclaimed, gesturing at the skilled with his free hand. Squall glared at it in mild disgust. "...Hey, do we have a window I can open?"

Squall rolled his eyes, dashing back to his room, which contained their apartment's only window, and slammed it open. He began wafting the smoke in the direction of the window as he made his way back to the kitchenette.

"All right, Irvine, what's the big idea?" he demanded.

"Eh…" Irvine dumped the charred bacon into the trash can. "That didn't quite turn out like I planned. But hey!" He pulled two mugs of coffee out of the microwave. "We have coffee!" Irvine took a long swig out of his own mug before gagging spectacularly. "Ugh!" He spat out the mouthful of coffee into the sink. Squall couldn't help but laugh.

Irvine sighed. "Look, you just looked so depressed about Rinoa and everything. But ugh! This coffee is _vile_. Sorry. …Just don't get too down, okay? I know it was a pretty bad fight you got yourselves in, but she'll chill out and then you two'll be just like old times."

Squall leaned down against the kitchenette counter. "You know about that?"

"You two were shouting pretty loud. I think this whole floor probably knows about that…"

Squall pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"Sorry," Irvine murmured sympathetically.

"I'm fine," Squall assured him. "I'll be painting. Let me know if you need anything." Irvine nodded, and Squall went back to shut himself in his room, leaving the door open a crack to allow the smoke to keep filtering out the window.

Throwing on an old sweatshirt to resist the winter chill from the open window, Squall fished his easel out of the closet and unfolded it. Then he picked up a blank canvas and set it on the easel before getting out some brushes and his acrylic paints. (Oils were expensive. He saved those for when he knew what he was doing.)

Then he flopped onto his bed in front of the easel and stared blankly at the white expanse of canvas before him. He knew Irvine was just trying to help, but his optimistic roommate couldn't possibly understand. Rinoa wouldn't be back.

After a couple of minutes of nothing, Squall grabbed the canvas and set it on the easel at a different angle. He squinted at it again, chewing on the end of his pencil restlessly. If he was ever going to leave this thankless place, get out of Hollow Bastion and its trashy apartments and live the life he'd always wanted for himself, if he was ever going to teach anyone _anything_ about the world, he needed to paint. This one canvas, sitting blankly in front of him, scrutinizing him with its whitewashed gaze, could be his ticket out of here.

So why couldn't he think of anything?!

Frustrated, Squall threw his pencil aside. Grabbing the tube of black, he squeezed it directly onto the canvas, allowing the thick glob of acrylic paint to drip down, marring the center of the pure white canvas. He jabbed his largest brush into the paint blob, hard enough to make any artist cringe, spreading the black haphazardly across the pristine canvas.

Detachedly, he reached for a new tube of paint, not even caring which color he used, and did the same thing with that one, knowing in the back of his mind that this splattered mess was a waste. That it was all a waste. All his time, all his effort, all his dreams.

Squall Leonhart would never amount to something great.

* * *


	2. Colors

Wow, it took _forever_ to write this. I'm sorry. School and an AP test and an anime convention and video games monopolized great parts of my time. As did learning how to drive. I only have a month and then I'll have to renew my permit. Eep, I still can't park worth crap.

Strangely, the greater majority of this was written during church. I think this is a trend that will continue.

But think about it this way: this chapter's longer than the first one, and I've now beaten Sora's part of Kingdom Hearts: Chain of Memories. (Finally!) And I'm almost done with Reverse/Rebirth.

Spell-check wants Marluxia to be "malaria" and Larxene to be "larceny." Something about this seems oddly fitting.

Enough of my babbling. Thanks, as always, goes to my lovely beta/sister Meow Meow Ky. And to Delightful Sin for her delightful nagging. ...Don't glare at me! You know I love ya.

And wow, thanks to all you reviewers. I'm amazed. I've never had a first chapter be quite this popular so far.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Kingdom Hearts or any Final Fantasy game. "Colors" is by Crossfade.

* * *

**Lighthouse**

Chapter 2:

**Colors**

* * *

_Surely not the best colors that you shine…_

* * *

Squall let the brush fall from his grasp. It tumbled to the floor, trailing a bead of muck-colored paint with it. Squall glared at the canvas before him. Judging from the light coming in from the window, it had to be at least noon. He'd been painting—if he could call his fervor that—for hours without even realizing it.

He was sitting on his bed, surrounded by half-empty paint tubes and crumpled up paper towels. A small bottle of mud-colored water balanced precariously on his knee and his pallet sat to his side, a mess of colors tainting its metallic surface.

Squall leaned back, scowling at what he had created. Black and red and blue and green and gold splattered across the canvas, trailed along roughly by brushes and fingertips, the colors bleeding together, converging in the center to form a uniform yellow-brown. And scrawled in the middle of it all, jaggedly, almost carelessly, was a single skeletal white feather. Squall was just as disgusted with it as he had been before.

He dragged a paint-caked hand through his shaggy brown hair, taking in the other canvases leaning along the wall. His finished paintings. Precise works of art, technical masterpieces. A lion roaring across the savannah. A pretty young girl—Rinoa had been the model—standing under the streetlights, smiling. A polished gunblade, naked metal appearing to almost glow.

All as detailed as a photograph. Nothing like the mess that sat before him.

Squall picked up his paints, returning them to their box, and gathered the paper towel pieces into a ball, lobbing it into the trashcan. Then he carried his palette and brushes to the sink in the kitchenette, scrubbing the acrylic paint off of them irritably. Once finished, he set them on a towel to dry.

Laughter floated over from the TV in the living room, and Squall couldn't help but feel like it was mocking him. He snarled, whirling to snatch his jacket and keys from where he'd left them on the counter. Flinging his arms into his coat, he shoved his feet into his boots in the entryway. He needed some fresh air.

"I'm going out," Squall barked back at Irvine, just so his roommate wouldn't waste the afternoon wondering where he had gone. "I'll be back in a few hours."

"Squall!" Irvine yelped, sitting up from where he was slumped on the couch and poking his head up from around the arm. "Wait a second!"

Squall took an impatient step back into the apartment.

"What?" At that moment, another head popped up next to Irvine's. "…Rinoa?"

The black-haired girl flashed a winning smile, giving him a little wave from where she sat beside Irvine on the couch. "Hi Squall!"

Squall pinched the bridge of his nose. He could _feel_ a headache coming on. "What do you want?" he growled, turning to leave again.

"Come on, just sit down for a second before ya go rushing out the door," Irvine drawled, giving up his seat to stand behind the couch. "It won't kill you to listen to the woman."

Squall sighed, recognizing that particular glint in Rinoa's eyes. He couldn't help but worry that it just might.

But he took the offered seat anyway, fixing Rinoa with a skeptical glare. She was ready to kill him not twenty-four hours ago, and now she was sitting here smiling like nothing had happened? Women were impossible.

Rinoa took Squall's glare as a cue to start talking. She sighed. "Okay, Squall… I know we both had a rough time yesterday, but that doesn't mean we have to hate each other, right?" She looked at him hopefully. Behind Rinoa, Squall saw Irvine wink as if to say "I told you so. Here comes the apology." Squall resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

Rinoa gave up on getting confirmation and continued. "So even though we know our romantic relationship is doomed to failure, we can still be friends, right?" Squall looked even more skeptical. How could she sound so chipper and so depressingly melodramatic at the same time?

Rinoa sighed. She knew Squall well enough to realize she wouldn't get a response. "Look, Squall. I'm here with _good_ news. And we're still friends, okay? So lighten up a little!" Behind her, Irvine nodded.

"….." was Squall's enthusiastic reply.

Rinoa rolled her eyes. "I think in Squall-ese that means he's interested." She looked to Irvine for confirmation. The cowboy just shrugged and trotted off to his room, presumably to go get his fiddle or something else equally annoying. Squall sighed, resigned to his fate. That was just like Irvine. Conspiring with this crazy woman and then leaving him alone with her. To come back not a day after their breakup, Rinoa had to be a little mentally unstable. As far as Squall understood, that just wasn't how things were done.

"Squ—all!" Rinoa whined, grabbing his arm. "Stop fidgeting like you're looking for an escape route! You'll _like_ this news!" She paused as if for dramatic effect. "I think I found someone who will show your work!" Squall froze, turning to face her. Rinoa continued, emboldened by his interest. "He's a friend of mine: owns a private gallery. Nothing _huge_ or anything, but I showed him some of the pictures I have of your stuff on my phone when he and I went out for lunch the other day and he said he thought people might buy it!" Suddenly, she lunged across the couch, throwing her arms tightly around Squall. "I'm so excited! This could be your big break!"

Squall stared down at his ex-girlfriend (who was squealing and squeezing his midsection) in stunned silence. She jumped up with a start, releasing him, as if she'd suddenly thought of something. "Oh! You'll need his card! He gave it to me…" She frantically padded the pockets of her jeans and her coat before dashing over to grab her purse off of the kitchenette counter. Squall stared blankly, wondering how he had missed its presence there when he'd grabbed his coat. Rinoa dug through her purse before finally fishing out a small business card from one of its pockets.

"Here it is!" She handed the card to Squall, and their fingers brushed against each other. Rinoa quickly withdrew her hand to flick a few dark strands of hair behind her ear. "There. Hey! You're going out anyway, right?" she remembered with a nervous laugh. Squall realized this was probably just as awkward for her as it was for him. "Why don't you go see him? Bring your portfolio and stuff!" She dashed off to Squall's room before he could stop her and emerged again in the blink of an eye, with the bulging bag of artwork and a few other large canvases clutched under her arm. "Go on! Go!" she exclaimed, grabbing onto Squall's wrist and leading him over to the door. "He's trying to find stuff for a new gallery show right now! Oh, this'll be so great!"

She flashed another smile, and before he knew what hit him, Squall found himself standing outside the door of his own apartment, with nothing but his portfolio and a couple other canvases for company. As he leaned one of the larger paintings against the wall so that he could adjust his grip on the others, he couldn't help but feel that the yawning lion painted on its surface was laughing at him.

Twenty minutes of crisscrossing snowy streets later—downtown Radiant Garden had probably been plowed and de-iced by now, but it often took days for the plows to make it out to Hollow Bastion—Squall found himself standing in the middle of a sidewalk on the left side of a nearly-deserted street lined by brick buildings. Squall scanned the storefronts before him, trying to match any of their signs to the business card clasped in his gloved fingers.

Letting out a sigh of relief, he readjusted his grip on his portfolio and trotted across the deserted street under an awning that covered the sidewalk. He quickly double-checked the stylized iris logo on the business card Rinoa had given him with the sign on the building's glass door.

_Fleur-de-Lis Gallery_

_Welcome in._

Squall took the invitation.

The private art gallery owned by Rinoa's friend—whoever he was—seemed considerably larger once one was inside than would have seemed possible to someone standing on the street. Squall stamped the snow off of his boots on the doormat and then made his way across the polished wood floor, footsteps echoing noisily in the otherwise-silent building. On white-washed walls to either side of him hung several canvases and framed watercolors, the pride and joy of other local amateurs like himself. White pedestals of varying heights displayed sculptures and a few boldly-stained crooked clay vases. Everything was labeled neatly with titles, artists' names, occasional brief descriptions of the philosophy behind the piece, and of course, the price tag. Much to Squall's surprise, some of the hideous lopsided vases were adorned with "SOLD" stickers.

In the far corner of the room sat an empty desk that looked like it would belong to a receptionist, stacked with fliers advertising local artists, commissions, and upcoming gallery openings. Squall glanced around, searching the gallery for any signs of life. Finding none, he reluctantly trotted over to the desk, set down one of the canvases, and began rifling through the fliers. Rinoa made it sound like someone was expecting him. Why wasn't there anyone here? This was just like her… He'd come all this way for nothing. Rolling his eyes and sighing, Squall picked up the canvas and turned to leave.

"Well, if it isn't Squall—or should I say _Leon?_—Leonhart," trilled a silky voice, laden with fake affection. If Squall had been anyone else, he probably would have jumped at the sudden apparition. Or at least flinched. But instead he just spun coolly to face the man and woman now standing behind him.

"Marluxia…" he growled.

"Leon, Leon, such animosity!" The tall man shook his head, clicking his tongue in distaste. The blonde woman standing at his shoulder smirked, curling claw-like nails around the man's upper arm. "Rinoa told me _all_ about you. How _are_ you doing after all these years?"

Squall scowled. He didn't recognize the blonde woman, but Marluxia had gone to Radiant Garden University for art school as well, and the two of them had often been in the same studio classes. To say they'd never gotten along would be an understatement. There was something about Marluxia's supercilious attitude that got under Squall's skin in a way few other people could.

The man seemed to be doing quite well for himself. In contrast to Squall's scruffy appearance, Marluxia wore a neatly-pressed mauve dress shirt, black slacks, and shoes polished to a shine. His hair fell to his shoulders in feathered waves. Though it was actually an ashy brown, something in the lighting—or maybe it was his shirt—made it almost look pink.

Marluxia gestured to the woman at his arm. "This is Larxene." Apparently he deemed no other explanation necessary. Perhaps it wasn't. Judging by the simpering grin on the blonde woman's face and her crisp yet feminine suit, the two were cut out of the same mold. Her cropped blonde hair stuck up in two strange antennae. Or perhaps they were meant to be horns.

"How do you know Rinoa?" Squall demanded.

"No need to get upset," Marluxia replied, followed by a chuckle from Larxene. "We belong to the same book club." Squall raised an eyebrow. Rinoa had never struck him as a book-club-attending kind of girl. "We just finished reading Machiavelli's _The Prince_. One must be cruel in order to be kind."

Squall scoffed. Political theory. _That's Rinoa. _

Marluxia continued. "But you're not here because of that," he made no attempt to hide the scrutinizing glare he gave the portfolio clutched under Squall's arm, "are you, _Leon_?"

Squall's eye twitched. "Leon" had been a nickname he'd been given by some of his classmates in art school when they discovered that shortening his last name made a first name. Squall didn't think it was particularly clever, but he'd adopted the name anyway, using it to sign his pieces. It reminded him of lions. And he'd always, or at least in his more childish moments (which were thankfully rare), felt a strange affinity for lions. He wouldn't have minded the nickname if he didn't know Marluxia was only using it to mock him. So he didn't grace Marluxia with a response.

"Tut tut. You really haven't changed at all," Marluxia sighed.

"So _cold!_" Larxene cooed, giving a dramatic shiver. "It's a good thing Rinoa told us all about you and your little… _painting_ business, because we'd _never_ figure it out from you!" Squall glared at her, making her fanged grin become even more pronounced.

"Now now, don't bait him, Larxene." Marluxia gave the blonde a placating wave. We wouldn't want to bruise our budding baby artist." His smirk broadened while Squall wondered vaguely if dealing with this man would make his eye-twitch and headache permanent. Larxene wasn't helping either. She seemed to bring out Marluxia's sadistic side. Well, more so than normal. Squall heard Marluxia murmur, "The critics will take care of that for us." Larxene must have found this particularly vicious because she tittered with laughter—a sound like breaking glass—for a few seconds longer.

"Come now, let's take a look at what you've brought for us," Marluxia said to Squall. Larxene had finally released his arm. He walked to a door that Squall hadn't noticed before and held it open, gesturing for Squall to follow him. Inside was a cozy office containing a desk on which rested a laptop. In front of it sat a wooden armchair. Marluxia slid behind the desk and waved Squall to the chair.

Larxene reappeared in the doorway, wheeling in a desk chair, presumably from the receptionist's desk in the front. She rolled it behind Marluxia's desk and sat down as well, before leaning over to peer at Squall over steepled fingers.

"I'm sure you know how it works," she began. "We're here, taking time out of our busy schedules, out of the goodness of our hearts, because Rinoa's convinced _him_ that something of yours _might_ sell." She snorted as if she knew better. "No guarantees. And if something _does_ sell, we get ten percent of whatever you make. To cover the cost of our space, advertising, etc. etc." Squall nodded. That was the way the art business was. "Good boy," Larxene sneered.

Marluxia sighed. "Now, to business. Care to show us some of your pieces? …Leon?" Squall fixed him with a glare, but Marluxia's grin only got wider. And here Squall had thought getting to work would make Marluxia act a little more professional. Apparently he'd been wrong. Squall set one of the larger canvases down on the desk.

Marluxia glared at its surface. The painted lion glared back.

"You have a very good grasp of perspective," Marluxia noted. "RGU taught you well, I see."

"Oh, how cute. It's a lion," Larxene sneered.

"It's very nice: detailed. People would buy it."

"Sure, if they were on a Mako trip."

Marluxia's glared turned to her. "Larxene. Do try to maintain an _ounce _of professionalism."

Larxene put a hand to her lips in mock distress. "Oh, I'm _so sorry!_ Can you _ever_ forgive me?"

Marluxia rolled his eyes before asking to see the next pieces. He approved the paintings of Rinoa and of the gunblade, complimenting Squall for a "masterful use of lighting." But he was not as impressed with Squall's other lion paintings.

"We can't fill up the whole show with too much of the same thing. Since this is your first gallery show, I think it's best to put up a broad sampling of your work."

"Some _variety,_" Larxene scowled.

"Show people what you're capable of," Marluxia added. Squall nodded. He supposed it made sense, though he was especially proud of the series of lions. But he wasn't at all experienced with the workings of galleries, and though it pained him to admit it, Marluxia probably knew best. "Good, then we're in accord. So, do you think you could pick your favorite lion or two?"

"…Whatever." Squall indicated the large painting of the yawning lion and another smaller portrait of a roaring beast painted in all blues and grays except for its glowing yellow eyes. Marluxia nodded his approval while Larxene sat back in her chair, smirking as if she had something obnoxious she was dying to say.

"Wonderful," Marluxia stated. "We'd probably have room in your part of the show for one more piece, so if there are any last things you'd like to show us…"

Squall thought about it. Opening his portfolio, he didn't think he had anything else he'd want hanging in a gallery that Marluxia and Larxene hadn't already scrutinized. But reaching into the bag, he felt the corner of another canvas.

"What the…" He pulled it out, staring. The damn painting from earlier that morning! But he hadn't… Rinoa! It must've been her. When she'd rushed him out after telling him about the Fleur-de-Lis gallery, she must have stolen into his room and snuck the thing into his portfolio! He was mildly angry. Clearly Rinoa had no artistic taste. But he was also thankful that acrylics dried quickly. Not for the sake of the horrible little canvas, but because the rest of his paintings—the _good_ ones—would have been ruined if wet paint had gotten on them. He sat the wretched little canvas down on the desk so he could replace the contents of his portfolio, about to say that no, that was all. But the instant he opened his mouth, Larxene snatched up the little 10x12 monstrosity greedily.

"Oho! What is _this_?" She poured over it with almost hungry glee, tilting the surface this way and that. Marluxia leaned over to get a glimpse for himself.

"Abstract, Squall?" he observed, raising an eyebrow. "I never would have expected something like this from you."

"It's nothing," Squall growled, holding out a hand to demand that Larxene give the painting back.

"Oh, but I like it!" Larxene exclaimed, leaning over the desk so she could leer at Squall. "It's full of such raw, naked emotion…" Her little pink tongue flicked over her lips. Squall scooted back in his chair nervously.

"I concur," Marluxia agreed with a nod. "Beautiful." Squall glared back stubbornly. "Do you mind if we put this in the show?" Squall slumped back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose in silent frustration. "It's brilliant, really. I'd love to see you do more work like this," Marluxia continued, Larxene nodding furiously.

"Fine. Whatever." Squall snapped.

"Wonderful. Now, the gallery opening is next weekend, and the show will be up for a month, but we're hanging the show on Thursday, so we need these back with hanging gear put on them by then. Of course, we can do it for you—for a small fee, naturally." Squall shook his head. He could scrounge up a drill from someone in his building later and do the work himself. "Oh, good, good," Marluxia continued. "I'll call you in a few days to negotiate prices and such. No, no, don't worry, Rinoa already gave me your number. Good boy." He pressed a flier and a stack of cards displaying the show's date into Squall's grip. "Advertise a little, hm? Spread the word around. It's been wonderful to work with you, now run along. I've got work to do. Larxene will show you out."

By the time Squall made it back to his apartment, the sky was already beginning to darken. Sometime during the heat of the day, the snow had turned to slush, but now it was once again starting to harden. But the roads out of Radiant Garden were gridlocked with rush hour traffic, making it one of the few times Squall was grateful that he walked everywhere. He climbed the stairs to his apartment, set down a painting so he could unlock the door, and then elbowed it open. His full arms forced him to grip the key in his teeth as he kicked off his boots and carried the paintings to his room.

"Hey, Squall," Irvine called over the fizzling noise of a skillet he was holding over the burner in the small kitchenette. Squall frowned as he dropped the keys on the counter. It looked like Irvine was frying something, though Squall couldn't tell quite what. Was one supposed to do that with ramen noodles…?

"Is that edible?" Squall asked him with a rare smirk.

Irvine shrugged. "Think so. You hungry?" He turned down the burner, offering the steaming skillet to Squall, who shook his head.

"Don't want to risk death today." He reached into the fridge and pulled out some ham and cheese. Producing a loaf of bread from a cabinet, he frowned mildly at the blue spots marring the end of it, tossed the heel of the loaf into the trash, and selected two safe-looking slices.

"Might be too late for that," Irvine replied wryly. Squall stopped in mid bite of his sandwich, turning to stare incredulously at Irvine. "Your boss called," the red-headed cowboy explained.

Squall's brow furrowed in thought as he mentally catalogued all of his part-time jobs. "…Which boss?"

Irvine scowled. "The real _mean_ one, the catering guy."

Squall grimaced. "Did he tell you what he wanted?"

"Man, I didn't even pick it up," Irvine drawled, massaging an ear. "Didn't want him biting my head off. Let the answering machine get it."

Squall rolled his eyes, took a bite of his sandwich, and strode over to hit "play" on the answering machine. His own voice played back to him.

"Hello, you've reached the residence of Squall Leonhart--"

"And Irvine Kinneas!"

"—Neither of us are here right now, so please leave a message after the beep, and we'll get back to you as soon as we can."

"BEEP!"

"Boy, it's Cid," a gruff voice barked. "Where the hell 're you this early in the goddamn afternoon, eh? Eh, don't matter. You better get this message, y'here? Get your scrawny ass over here by 7:00. We got asked to cater some movie premier garbage an' Wedge jus' called in sick. You don' 'ave ta cook nothin', just mix drinks or serve hors d'oeuvres or somethin'. Just get the hell over here!"

The message ended with a click.

Squall rolled his eyes again, gulping down the rest of his sandwich.

"Guess I'm gone."

And that was how Squall found himself standing behind a bar counter set up in the lobby of one of Radiant Garden's most prestigious (and fanciest) theatres, mixing cocktails for the stars of _Calamity_ and their entourages of costumers, makeup artists, agents, event planners, and of course the ubiquitous paparazzi.

In his uniform white shirt and tuxedo vest, Squall felt vaguely like a trained penguin. He also felt that all the camera flashes were grating on his already worn-thin nerves. He leaned back against the counter, watching detachedly as Yuffie, one of his younger coworkers, bounced around the lobby, greeting Radiant Garden's finest with a tray of hors d'oeuvres.

A blown-up copy of the _Calamity _(starring Tifa Lockheart, Cloud Strife, and Sephiroth) movie poster hung in the center of the back wall of the lobby, displaying larger-than-life images of the already larger-than-lives that filled the building. The celebrities mixed and mingled around it, greeting each other with pasted-on smiles. Outside, the dark night was illuminated by another bout of camera flashes from the red carpet as someone else important made his or her stylish entrance. Squall was mildly surprised to see Sephiroth himself glide into the theatre, with a voluptuous brunette in a blue dress—Tifa Lockheart—on his arm. Immediately, the two were surrounded by reporters from all the major entertainment channels, magazines, and radio stations, bombarding them with questions about their work as the leads of _Calamity_.

Squall rolled his eyes. The press disgusted him. Give a man a few shiny statuettes and they fawned on him like a pack of dogs before an owner with a juicy bone. In fact, it wasn't a stretch for Squall to imagine wagging tails to go with their deferent postures and begging eyes. Pathetic.

Someone in front of him coughed to get his attention, snapping Squall back to what he was supposed to be doing. He turned to face the figure lounging on the barstool before him. In an attempt to maintain polite composure (after all, his paycheck, and thus a good portion of his career as an artist, was riding on this) he began, "Ah. I'm sorry. What would you li…" But the words failed him as he looked up, meeting the brilliant blue gaze of none other than Cloud Strife.

* * *

In a perfect world, I'd really not like to die again in Dirge of Cerberus.  
Stupid snipers. 


	3. Piano Man

It's here, it's here, it's finally here! I have excuses! A combination of work, family vacations, and Tifa femmeslash stole my writing time/ability. Uh… ...I'm gonna go hide now!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Kingdom Hearts or any Final Fantasy game. Or any miscellaneous products that appear in the course of this fic. "Piano Man" is by Billy Joel.

* * *

**Lighthouse**

Chapter 2:

**Piano Man**

* * *

…_They're sharing a drink they call loneliness  
But it's better than drinking alone…_

* * *

"...A Coke," Cloud told him, bluntly. 

Squall blinked stupidly. "…Huh?" Thinking of the fancy cocktails he'd been mixing up all night, he tried not to let the disbelief show in his face. Cloud fixed him with a bored stare.

The request finally sunk in. "Ah--one Coke! Right away, Sir." Squall skidded over to the freezer behind him and pulled out an iced glass, then scooped ice cubes into it. Setting the glass on the counter, he ducked down to fish a Coke can out of the small refrigerator.

"Diet," the blonde man added.

Beneath the counter, Squall grimaced, resisting the urge to make a snide remark about celebrities, diets, and sodas full of carcinogens. But he figured he was on thin ice already, and he knew celebrities usually left great tips. Instead, he pulled out a can of Diet Coke and poured what would fit into the glass before plunking both glass and can down in front of Cloud Strife.

Cloud took a sip.

Squall wracked his brain for a conversation starter. He hated starting conversations, but this _was_ his job. No one tipped an unfriendly bartender. He said the first thing that came to mind.

"So, what's it like working with Sephiroth?" In all honesty, Squall didn't really care about Sephiroth, or any other part of Cloud's acting career – though something about Cloud himself intrigued him – but it seemed like the sort of thing that someone who _did_ care would ask. And that was his job, when it came down to it. Acting like he cared.

Cloud shrugged, staring into his Diet Coke, as if hypnotized by the bubbles floating to the surface. Squall thought it almost looked like he was trying to drown in it. He leaned back against the counter, waiting for a verbal answer to his question. But none came. Obviously, Cloud wasn't going to make conversation any easier. _Probably too stuck-up_, Squall's mind jeered. But something about Cloud's eyes – what Squall could see of them, curtained by blonde bangs – told him otherwise.

Still, Squall surveyed the lobby, looking for someone else to wait on, anyone, so he wouldn't be stuck with the melancholy creature before him. Squall was fond of silence, more so than most people. He didn't know how to break it, not when the other party refused to reciprocate conversation. Rinoa and Irvine and the others were always better at that sort of thing. And when he was forced to mix drinks at functions for Cid's catering company, usually everyone he served was dying to share their life story. All he'd have to do was smile or frown, nod at appropriate places, and occasionally offer his two cents.

Such silence as Cloud's – especially from someone who, as Squall saw it, attracted attention for a living—perplexed him. It put him in a difficult and awkward position, where he didn't know what he was expected to do. So he looked for someone to relieve it.

But somewhere between Cloud's arrival at the bar and Squall's search for that can of Diet Coke, the lobby had begun to empty. By now, most of the guests had filed into the theatre. The showing of _Calamity_ was about to begin.

"Aren't you going to watch it?" Squall asked, swinging a hand in the general direction of the larger-than-life _Calamity_ poster hanging down from the ceiling.

Again Cloud shrugged. Took a sip of his drink. Exhaled.

"They won't miss me."

"You… don't want to see it all come together?" That was what Irvine always said he'd enjoyed most about theatre: the end results of months of work, seeing all the mistakes smooth themselves out at the last minute, seeing everything _come together._ …Irvine had never made it to the big screen.

"I know how it ends," Cloud replied without looking up from the glass in front of him.

It was Squall's turn to shrug. What business of his was any of this anyway? He wished he could pour _himself_ a drink. He didn't belong here, entertaining celebrities with stupid questions. He wasn't like those photographers and columnists, chasing famous people to give their foolish lives meaning. He was just some kid from Hollow Bastion, doing what he could to survive.

He sighed and leaned back against the counter. Silence fell between them. The sound of an explosion drifted in from the theatre. Across the room, serving trays clinked together as Yuffie tidied them, popping a tasty morsel into her mouth as she did so, and humming merrily to herself.

"You don't want to be here," a quiet voice noted. Squall turned back to face his customer. Again, blue eyes met his own grey ones, and Squall felt a spark of understanding pass between them. It wasn't like he believed in special connections between people, or weird stuff like that that girls liked to sigh about. But all the same, he looked into Cloud's eyes, and it was just something he could _see: _As much as they pretended and put on airs, neither of them belonged here. Squall needed something life had so far refused to give him. It was what he sought through all of his paintings, what Rinoa had been trying to help him find. …He wondered if Cloud felt the same way.

Squall realized Cloud was still staring at him expectantly, waiting for the answer to some unspoken question.  
"I… I paint," Squall admitted awkwardly. "This is just… supplementary income." Remembering the cards Marluxia had given him, he fished one out of his pocket and held it out for Cloud to take. "I… actually I have some stuff in a show opening next weekend."

The blonde man read the information on the little card, head tilted in feigned curiosity, and then set the card down on the counter to pour some more Diet Coke into his glass.  
"From here?" he asked. It took Squall a second to realize what the question was directed at.

"No, Traverse. Went to RGU."

Cloud nodded, and what Squall could already tell was an uncharacteristic smirk spread across his features. "Thought so. You don't have that West Coast accent yet." He tapped the side of his head knowingly. Squall blinked. What was this sudden change in attitude? "I'm from the Midgar slums." Squall's eyes widened. First Cloud had started acting _cheerful_, something rarely seen in even his _film_ roles, and now this? Squall wasn't a fool. He'd heard about Midgar, though he'd never actually been there, and he knew that people from the slums didn't become celebrities. From what he'd heard, they never became much of anything at all.

"Don't look so shocked," Cloud replied, smirk widening. "Something good had to come outta that shit hole eventually." He let out a loud bark of a laugh.

Squall was completely thrown for a loop. But before he could stop to seriously consider the strange transformation he was seeing in the blonde man, Cloud began steering the conversation away.

"Something in particular make you want to come to Radiant Garden?" he asked. And Squall was forced to reply.

Two and a half hours later, celebrities and quests began filing out of the building into their waiting limousines. Squall looked up at the noise, surprised the time had passed so quickly. He mouthed the beginning of a word of goodbye to Cloud, but the blonde had already slipped away without a sound, blending into the crowd.

As the theatre emptied, Squall wiped down the bar counter, mind foggy with thoughts of home and sleep. As he came to the stool where Cloud had sat, he saw a scrap of paper on the floor and bent to pick it up. At first his intent was to throw it away, but then he turned it over to read the print on the other side.

_Fleur de Lis_ _Gallery  
Proudly fostering Radiant Garden's talent  
New artwork on display Saturday February 17 until March 17.  
Join us for the reception on February 17, 6:00 pm to 9:00 pm!_

Squall frowned at it, eyes narrowing in disgust, before crumpling up the paper and lobbing it into the garbage can. What a waste.

The next day was Sunday, and Squall rested. By the time he was fully awake, it was nearly noon. Sometime earlier that morning, he'd heard Irvine tuning his guitar, so he wasn't surprised to find the apartment empty. Presumably, his roommate had left to earn his keep.

Squall wondered why the man wouldn't just get a job, instead of sitting on some street corner all day, strumming tunes and hoping someone took pity on him and dropped their spare change into his open guitar case. Irvine wasn't an idiot, Squall knew. But the man was stubborn as the Galbadian bulls on the ranch his family owned out West, stubborn like Squall himself. Perhaps that was why they got along as well as they did.

Again he thought of Rinoa, and it was almost all he could do to drag himself up and out of his room. She was stubborn, too, in her own way, insisting they remain friends even though they couldn't be the same. He'd love to talk to her today. Tell her about the show at Fleur de Lis. It would be the first time he'd confronted her of his own volition since their break-up…

Squall showered, dressed, and fished out a clean bowl, and the box of cereal. He tipped the box over his bowl, and noted with grim dismay the cereal crumbs that drizzled out. Then he went to the refrigerator, remembered they were out of milk, and finally downed the powdery cereal remains with a grimace. Grocery shopping seemed to be in order.

It was a pity Irvine had left. Squall was willing to make the trip for both of them, but he wasn't about to pay for Irvine's share. Well, there was nothing he could do about it now. He had enough from his tips at the premier the night before. He'd make Irvine reimburse him later. Pocketing his wallet, he slid on his jacket and boots and trotted out the door, locking it behind him. He walked the next few blocks at a leisurely pace – it was still cold, but the midday sun and the absence of wind made it more bearable – until he came to the closest of Hollow Bastion's supermarkets.

Inside, he grabbed a basket and began piling it with food. A loaf of bread, some lunchmeat and cheese, a couple apples, a new box of his favorite kind of cereal (Irvine be damned). Then the other necessities: razor blades, after shave, a tube of toothpaste. Contemplating his mental list, he meandered back to the food, adding a multi-pack of ramen noodles to his basket. Remembering the milk, he found himself debating the virtues of getting a half or a full gallon when something small and bony "thunked" into his side.

Caught off guard, Squall shifted his grip on his groceries and adjusted his footing in order to maintain balance. He fixed the person with a disgruntled glare, ready to snap at him or her to "watch it."

The small brunette, arms full of canned goods, whirled around. "Eheh, sorry!" she gasped, and shifted the cans around in her arms, making as if to steady Squall herself with a free elbow or finger. Then, green eyes widened. "Squall?!"

"Selphie?"

"Heyyy! Squally! How've you been?!" Selphie adjusted her pile of cans again, this time trying to hug him, but Squall recoiled and she gave up. "Wow, I haven't seen you in… forever!"

Squall shook his head. It had only been a few weeks since their paths had last crossed. "You're doing well?" he ventured. Selphie gave a bold nod.

"Yep! Never better!" Glancing from Squall to her handful of cans to her watch, she continued. "Hey! I've got an idea. You got everything?" She motioned to Squall's groceries. He nodded, settling on the half-gallon. "Well, then let's not stand around and catch up _here! _Let's go get lunch!"

Squall frowned. "Selphie…"

"Oh, don't you worry! My treat!" She fixed him with a thousand-watt grin. "I can drop you by your place to put away the groceries, too!" Squall still wasn't convinced. He had a nice, laid back day planned out… "Come on, Squall! We'll be back before Rinoa even misses you! …Besides, she knows you're not my type anyway." Selphie dashed up the aisle toward the cashiers, turning to give a beckoning wave. "Hurry up!"

Squall nodded in acknowledgement. Selphie was a good friend. She'd find out eventually. He might as well be the one to break the news… His day of peace and solitude could wait. He sighed and followed Selphie at a slower pace.

Selphie's yellow Volkswagen Beatle whipped into an open space in front of Mog's, a cozy little café tucked away from Radiant Garden's main streets. Selphie locked the car with a beep and trotted up to hold the café door for Squall, who followed behind her.

They filed into Mog's and were led to their table by a polite waitress who handed them menus and told them her name was Wendy, and to let her know if they needed anything. Wriggling out of her parka, Selphie ordered a raspberry lemonade, and began to peruse the menu. Squall ordered a cup of coffee, and followed suit.

Wendy returned with their drinks a few minutes later, and Selphie quickly ordered her favorite sandwich. Not nearly as familiar with the menu – he'd only been to Mog's once or twice, and that was when he was in school – Squall took a minute before settling on the lunch special: half a sandwich and a cup of the soup of the day. Wendy gave them a friendly smile and went to place their orders.

It wasn't until after Wendy was gone and Selphie saw the first sip of coffee touch Squall's lips that she seemed to think it safe to continue her earlier line of questioning.

"So, what've you been up to?" she chirped.

"I could ask the same of you," Squall told her. Selphie laughed nervously.

"Ohh, you know I can't tell you that!" she whined. "All my business with Shin-Ra is strictly classified! Top secret," she added matter-of-factly.

Squall rolled his eyes. Unlike the majority of his motley group of friends, who had all majored in some kind of art, Selphie had gone into engineering. Her mechanical skills, and her rabid interest in planes, trains, and automobiles, had landed her a summer internship with Shin-Ra Electric Power Company. Right after graduation, Selphie had been hired full-time, and she began quickly rising up the ranks of what was one of the most powerful companies in the world. Which easily explained why her salary was at least four times what _he_ scraped by with.

"But I will tell you this:" Selphie continued. "There're planes involved – _vroom vroom! -- _ and the new Shin-Ra president is _really_ cute! I've only seen him from far away, though. Never talked to him or anything…"

Squall fixed Selphie with a look that plainly said "Whatever."

Selphie frowned at him. "Okay, fine. Your turn now." Squall just started at her. "Come on!! How's Rinoa?"

Squall sighed for probably the billionth time. Time to break the news… "We're not together anymore," he told her, staring down into his coffee.

"You're—But! You two were like--"

Squall's glare stopped her in mid-sentence. "Don't tell _me_ about it," he snarled under his breath.

They settled into awkward silence. Squall lost himself in his coffee cup – anything to keep him from having to see Selphie's sympathetic (pitying) frown. Half of him wanted just to leave: he'd never really had a way with words. But despite all of her irritating habits, Selphie _was_ his friend. He knew, deep down, that she only said what she did because she cared. …And she was paying for their lunch. More than conversation, Squall hated feeling like a burden. So he sat there, drinking his coffee, thinking about how all this would be easier if Rinoa or Irvine were there instead of him, and then mentally kicking himself for being so dependent.

Then his and Selphie's food arrived, brought on a tray by Mog himself, a stout little man with a shocking puff of red hair.

Squall sipped at his soup, intermittently taking a bite of his sandwich as Selphie fidgeted across the table from him, eyes flicking from her sandwich to Squall, to her sandwich again.

"Look…" Selphie began. Squall glanced up from his soup. She never could stand silence for long… "I'm sorry about you and Rinoa," she continued. "I'll… I'll talk to her, okay…?" Squall inclined his head in a noncommittal manner. It wasn't Selphie's problem to worry about.

Silence fell again as Squall watched Selphie pick at her sandwich. Slowly, a smirk spread across her face as she titled her head to meet Squall's gaze.

"Say… How's Irvine been?"

Squall leaned back against the booth in exasperation.

"Same as always," he groaned, but he could feel a smile twitching on his lips in spite of himself. "A deadbeat scoundrel who does nothing but sit around and play guitar or fiddle all day."

Selphie laughed at this, and he couldn't help but grin a little along with her.

"That's Irvine!" she crowed. "But how are _you_ doing in _your_ career of choice, _monsieur artiste?"_

"_I_ make a living for myself. Just because he's too stubborn…"

"Glass houses!" Selphie admonished, waving a scolding finger across the table at him before picking up her sandwich and taking a bite.

She had a point. But –

"Actually, I've got some of my work hanging in a show next week," he told her, pulling out one of the invitations he still hadn't taken out of his coat pocket. "At Fleur de Lis Gallery."

Without putting down her sandwich, Selphie snatched the card gratefully. "Oh! Wowww! Is that a big one?"

"No. They're showing a lot of artists, so I'll only have a few pieces up, but-"

"Booyaka!" Selphie shouted, waving the sandwich around wildly. "Want me to make you some custom invites? I'll pass 'em out at work and advertise on my blog… 'Fleur de Lis Gallery – featuring new work from Radiant Garden's own Leon Leonhart!' Oh, I'm so excited!" She wolfed down her sandwich with equal enthusiasm. "Your big break!" she said through a mouthful. "I'm so proud!" Squall smiled appreciatively, and he was also a little embarrassed. There was no one in the world quite like Selphie Tilmitt. They sat in silence again, but it was a companionable silence, not an apprehensive one.

Until Wendy placed the bill in front of Squall.

"Squall!" Selphie implored. "I said I'd take care of it."

Squall frowned down at the little folder. In the long run, he knew he couldn't afford eating out, but he felt guilty leaving Selphie to pay his share, even though she'd agreed to. He felt like he was failing in some kind of duty, and he hated how it hurt his pride as he handed Selphie that folder and the little slip of paper it contained.

"Don't worry about it," Selphie assured him, signing the check with a smile. "Squall, you need to save your money to make more masterpieces!"

Squall rolled his eyes, but really, despite his wounded pride, he was grateful.

As they left the café and climbed into Selphie's car once again, Squall muttered a quiet "Thank you." At first he thought Selphie hadn't heard him, but at the next stop light she turned to face him, and fixed him with a glowing Selphie-smile.

"It's no trouble, Squall. You know that. Anytime you need a hand, just let me know, 'kay?"

The rest of the afternoon passed by quickly. After Selphie dropped him off at his building, Squall knocked on the door of the carpenter who lived two doors down, borrowed a drill, gathered his paintings, and busied himself putting on the screws, hooks, and wires that would be necessary to use to hang them in Marluxia's gallery. It didn't take long. Canvas was a nice medium in that it didn't need to be framed to look finished.

Satisfied with at least that part of his work, he returned the drill to his neighbor and then meandered back into his living room. Seeing no other pressing matters to take care of, he retrieved a pencil and his sketchbook and flopped down on the couch, flipping on the TV for company. Squall didn't watch television much, but some ambient background noise helped to fill the empty apartment.

He sketched through two hours of some soap or other, letting his mind wander to things that would be right to say and the person he'd have to say them to, before rolling his eyes at the staged drama. He flipped the channel to a movie, saw Cloud Strife in the supporting cast, growled, and quickly changed to the evening news. _The same thing as always_, Squall thought as he stared down at his page—filled with sketches of lions, birds' wings, Rinoas, and the occasional head of spiky blonde hair—wars across the ocean, interest rates skyrocketing, snow piling up, rolling blackouts, upcoming conference on Shin-Ra's new environmental policy… None of the news was really _news_ anymore, he thought, turning the TV off in frustration.

That was it. He couldn't put it off anymore. Mechanically, Squall slid off the couch and walked to the door, locking it behind him, and then walked stiffly down the stairs until he came to the ground floor of the apartment complex. Then he made a left, a right, and another quick left, coming to stand in front of a worn door much like his own. Gathering his willpower – he was just doing this to be polite. There were no emotions involved anymore – he raised a hand and gave a quick rap on the door.

Immediately he was answered by a sharp stream of medium-pitched barks. Then a shout: "Angelo!" Some rattling noises. "Shhshhshh, attagirl," and finally the "click" of the door being unlocked. The door opened a crack and Squall caught a glimpse of a disheveled-looking Rinoa before the door burst fully open and he was tackled to the ground by a sloppy, writhing mass of tri-colored fur.

"Angelo!" Rinoa roared, though – if he looked past the wagging body on his chest, the shiny black nose obscuring his vision, and the wet tongue that was currently bathing his face – Squall could see the laughter in her eyes. "Bad! Bad dog!" she scolded, and the shepherd-mix, cowed, scrambled off of Squall to stand by her mistress, though as Squall got to his feet, he still detected the trace of an overjoyed wriggle from the tailless dog.

"Sorry…" Rinoa murmured, wrapping a firm grip around Angelo's collar. The dog panted noisily. "I guess she missed you…"

Awkward silence followed as Squall tried not to get defensive. It wasn't _his_ fault Rinoa's dog had been denied his company. But saying so wouldn't get him anywhere, so he swallowed his pride so he could say what he'd come to say.

Before he could, Rinoa turned away from him to shoo Angelo back into her apartment. "Squall." She tentatively cracked the door open wider, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Do you want to… come in?"

Squall shrugged, so Rinoa ushered him in toward her couch, which was quickly cleared of the stack of papers, file folders, and notebooks piled on it. She stacked these next to her laptop, which sat, open, on a coffee table.

"I was working on my novel," she explained, and sat down on the couch, staring expectantly at Squall. He shook his head when he realized she wanted him to join her.

"I'm not gonna take long," he told her. "Just wanted to say thanks. And here." He handed Rinoa an invitation to the gallery reception and let himself out, pretending he hadn't noticed Rinoa's disappointed frown. He didn't need her. Now she just needed to go find someone else to make her happy

* * *

Hey, guess what, people? We authors, we have hit counters now. You know what that means? I can _see_ all of you who come in, read this story, and don't review. I know how easy it is to be a passive fanfiction reader. But I really do like hearing what you all think of this chapter. Like it? Tell me. Hate it from the bottom of your soul? TELL ME. Got any questions/comments/suggestions/criticism? Let me KNOW. I can't improve unless I know I'm doing something wrong.The purple button is your friend, too. Click him, please. He's lonely.   



End file.
